


Synesthesia

by moolktea



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Baby Nero (Devil May Cry), Dadgil, Family Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Memory Loss, Pre-Canon, mental trauma, nelo angstelo, nero propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moolktea/pseuds/moolktea
Summary: The first time Nelo Angelo finds the human world is by chance.-Or, in another life, Vergil meets his son.





	Synesthesia

**Author's Note:**

> IM BACK ON MY BULLSHIT......i am sorry for being Dead for a long amount of time but now i hav returned to dump large amounts of propaganda on u  
BIGGG ty to quix (vorokis on ao3) who helped me beta this fic and also listens to my rabid baby newo and dad vergil thoughts + is the writer of many amazin fics
> 
> this fic is a (late) birthday present to @haloefn on twitter, THANK U for ur amazing art

The first time Nelo Angelo finds the human world is by chance.

It happens in one of the moments when his master has no need of him, when Nelo Angelo finds himself drifting idly along the outskirts of Mundus’ realm. 

He likes to wander, in these rare instances when his time is his own, because when he stands at his master’s side, he must always keep his head bowed and his body still, his form and his will bent obediently to his master’s liking. 

Despite the long years of practice he’s had as Mundus’ servant, he still finds the action of willing himself to do absolutely nothing to be the most exhaustive, because his muscles cramp and his skin prickles underneath his armor, and something in the back of his mind tells him that he used to move like water, fluid and graceful and ceaselessly in motion. 

So when his master turns him loose, Nelo Angelo aimlessly moves about, simply to enjoy the sensation of movement and the slightest sense of freedom inherent in it, and in one particular instance, when he steps forward and past an invisible boundary, he feels the faint tug of a distortion in the fabric of space. 

He pauses in his stride, angling his body towards the disturbance, and while his first thought is to immediately alert his master of this new occurrence, another part of him is helplessly curious, somehow drawn to his finding.

Nelo Angelo glances about himself on instinct, checking his surroundings for another presence around him, because he hardly wants to be observed in this risk he’s taking. Of course, hiding things from his master in the long term is impossible--Mundus made him, and so he knows him, every part of him.

But Nelo Angelo still wants to try, somehow, because there’s a faint thrill in having something to himself, whether it is a sliver of knowledge or a well-kept secret, something humanizing and reassuring, and Nelo Angelo wants it.

He lifts his hand, noticing the way his armored fingers tremble slightly under the weight of his potential disobedience, and presses it lightly against the space where he feels that the energy is the strongest. It looks like empty air, and he half expects his hand to pass freely through it, but when he moves closer, he encounters something like resistance, followed by a faint tug in the pit of his stomach.

The situation is hardly ideal, given the limited amount of knowledge he has on exactly what this is, but whatever it is that draws him in overrides his natural reservations. Nelo Angelo has hardly anything to lose, anyway, even if he gains nothing from this experimental excursion, and so he takes in a breath, steadies his hand, and pushes himself forward.

He knows it to be a mistake almost immediately.

Whatever it is on the other side of the rift blinds him instantly in its intensity, and the flaring light sneaks through the gaps in his armor and stings at his skin, burning at his oversensitive flesh. He’s been shoved into a foreign space, a vortex of color and light and sound and sensation, and after his infinite existence in the muted tones of Hell, Nelo Angelo can only flinch away from whatever this is, his eyes sliding shut on reflex and his body renouncing itself of his mental commands. 

He thinks he falls then, but his sense of orientation has long been stolen from him, along with the breath in his lungs, and the ground seems to drop out from underneath his feet, his chest constricting in on itself in a dizzying wave. 

Everything is too much of what he doesn’t and has never known, and his muscles ache and his skin tingles, and when he tries to make sense of what is happening, thinking proves to be the worst pain of them all.

Nelo Angelo is no stranger to the sensation of pain, but this is far removed from any of Mundus’ usual machinations. Mundus knows how pick through his mind until Nelo Angelo feels like a stranger in his body, and knows how to tear apart his body until he  _ wishes  _ he were a stranger.

In those cases, though, Nelo Angelo knows how to protect himself, knows how to force his mind to drift and for his consciousness to still, until he’s looking at himself from another perspective, one that is safe and far away and somewhere else. 

He cannot do any of that here, not when the pain is so concentrated in every part of him that he hardly knows where to flee, so when his mind finally falls quiet and his thoughts go dark, Nelo Angelo considers it a blessing.

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers that he didn’t believe in blessings. He didn’t believe in waiting for someone to help him because he’d already tried--he’d waited for his father to save him and he’d waited for his mother to find him. _

_ He’d waited patiently as their lives disappeared into smoke, until the way he’d waited became his biggest regret. _

* * *

Nelo Angelo comes back to himself slowly, first in bits and pieces, and then all at once. 

His body stings and his skin feels raw, but when he dares to carefully extend his senses outwards, he can no longer feel the painfully bright light against his closed eyelids or the searing heat under his armor. There’s a cool, gentle brush across his face, and it takes him a surprisingly long second to register that he is actually feeling the touch, that his head is uncovered and free of its usual confines.

For a moment, he allows himself to simply lay there, taking in slow, shuddering breaths of clean air through his hollow chest, his mind attempting to catch up to the shock of its new environment. He isn’t in Hell anymore, he can tell that much--the breeze against his face and the faint scent of grass and wood are enough to give away his newfound location in the human world.

There are few dangers on this side of the realm that Nelo Angelo cannot handle. He is an artificial demon and a born fighter, and while he knows that the adult humans often contend with each other, they are hardly a match for him. 

Despite the lack of danger, he finds himself somehow hesitant to fully open his eyes, because doing so will fully immerse him in the new territory he is in. 

Nelo Angelo has spent a long time trying to teach himself to appreciate his master’s benevolence, to take Mundus’ teachings to heart and to learn to acclimate himself to a lifetime at Mundus’ side. If he sees now, for himself, the world from his memories, the taste of freedom he’d had from his life before, Nelo Angelo isn’t certain he’ll be able to so freely force himself back into servitude.

He was never meant to come here, after all, and he and Vergil know all too well what it means to open one door and become lost in what lies within.

But he has never been one to run from anything, in either of his lives, so Nelo Angelo presses his palms more firmly against the grass that he cannot feel, and opens his eyes.

Vergil has remembered the sky for him, after all this time, but the sight is different when it is before his eyes, rather than a foggy picture in his already clouded memories. It’s already nighttime, which explains the helpful absence of the sun, and Nelo Angelo thinks he quite prefers the faint light of the moon and stars, because neither of these hurt or burn against him, even as he pushes his unsteady form upwards for a closer look.

His armor creaks with his weight when he sits up, and the sound induces a sudden movement out of the corner of Nelo Angelo’s eye. 

Nelo Angelo automatically twists towards it, and comes to face the incredibly tiny form of a startled looking human child, whose face is nearly hidden by the oversized scarf wrapped around his neck, only his blue eyes visible from where they peek out from underneath the boy’s fluffy white bangs. The child’s hands are pressed uncertainly against his own chest, in a halfway defensive posture, but the boy makes no move to flee from Nelo Angelo’s presence, which is surprising in and of itself.

For a second, neither of them move, and Nelo Angelo takes advantage of the stillness to reach into his own thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the boy’s presence before, when he’d first woken up, likely due to the unassuming size and figure of the boy’s overall being. Now that he’s actually aware of and focusing on this child, Nelo Angelo senses something slightly off about the boy--he doesn’t feel like other humans tend to do, because humans generally don’t register in Nelo Angelo’s mind at all, his system naturally wired to favor other demons. 

This boy is nowhere near a full demon, his presence barely prickling against Nelo Angelo’s senses, but he still possesses _ something, _ and whatever it is heightens both Nelo Angelo’s curiosity and the overall oddity of the situation.

From what Nelo Angelo can extract from Vergil’s memories, humans were quite talkative, always striking up conversation or inquiring into his own affairs, but this child makes no move to do either, one of his small hands moving to his scarf to tug it slightly upwards. 

If the boy is expecting Nelo Angelo to begin the conversation, he will be sorely disappointed, because Nelo Angelo does not think he can speak. He remembers the concept of it, and he remembers words and language, but a servant’s place is to obey, rather than question, and so he has never tried it for himself. 

Even now, when his master is in another realm entirely, Nelo Angelo finds that his tongue lays still and his words refuse to surface and he thinks that perhaps he has become so adept in muting himself that his silence has become permanent. 

He certainly has questions, though, the most prominent of which being the reason as to why this boy remains at his side.

Nelo Angelo knows how he must look, has seen his own reflection at some singular point in his past, one way or another, and he remembers looking into red eyes and a web of cracks against his flesh, his skin white and paper-thin with the way it stretched across his discolored veins. His visage is unsettling to himself, so he can hardly imagine how this child must feel upon seeing his uncovered face, belonging to an unknown creature nearly four or five times his size. 

When the boy peeks shyly up at him, however, Nelo Angelo cannot see even a hint of fear in the child’s wide eyes. A slight tremble passes through his small frame, but only after the next gust of wind, suggesting that the reaction is more from the cold than anything. Nelo Angelo watches as the boy shrinks slightly in on himself, wrapping his arms around his body, his eyes never completely leaving Nelo Angelo’s face.

Nelo Angelo frowns instinctively as he surveys the child’s form, which is covered in rather ill-fitting clothing, his thin shirt greatly oversized and his feet completely bare. As his gaze drops downwards, he catches sight of a fabric similar to the material of the boy’s clothes laying in Nelo Angelo’s own lap, slightly wrinkled and folded where it drapes over his legs.

He hadn’t noticed it before, unable to feel it through his armor, but it becomes quickly obvious to him that, for some strange reason, the boy had initially intended to put it over him in the time that Nelo Angelo had been unconscious. 

Although neither the color nor the pattern of the dark blue fabric in Nelo Angelo’s lap matches that of the rest of the boy’s clothing, he can tell that this belongs to him all the same, and that the boy had taken it from his own person to give it to Nelo Angelo.

Slowly, Nelo Angelo picks the cloth up between his fingers, watching as the boy’s gaze falls upon the cloak almost longingly. He makes no move to take it back, though, even as he shivers in the chill of the night, and Nelo Angelo gets the distinct impression that the boy genuinely believes that Nelo Angelo, an enormous demonic hybrid almost completely covered in magical armor, needs protection from the cold more than this undernourished child does.

Driven by some long-dormant instinct, Nelo Angelo takes the cloak properly in his hands, leaning towards the child, giving the boy enough time to run away or flinch back if he pleases. The boy doesn’t react though, continuing to blink up at him owlishly, tilting his head curiously when Nelo Angelo reaches around him and drapes the cloak over his thin shoulders.

The child makes a soft noise of confusion, his thin fingers moving upwards to grasp inquisitively at the returned article of clothing before he points to Nelo Angelo, the question in his silent gesture obvious.

Nelo Angelo retracts his hands, giving a mechanical shake of his head, and the boy pulls the cloak more tightly around him, daring to take a tiny step closer until his legs brush up properly against Nelo Angelo’s armor.

After another mute pause, the boy takes a seat next to him, his form thumping lightly against the ground as he makes himself comfortable in the grass, drawing his knees up to his chest. 

“I’m Nero,” he says, in such a soft voice that Nelo Angelo almost has to strain to hear it.

Nero’s words are raspy and subdued from clear disuse, and he drops his gaze to the ground almost immediately after he speaks, his muscles tensing nervously in a way that Nelo Angelo doesn’t like. He doesn’t continue further after that introduction, perhaps expecting one in return, but even if Nelo Angelo had the means of conveying his name to the boy, he finds that he doesn’t entirely want to, somehow.

Nelo Angelo Angelo is not truly his name, anyway--it is a borrowed thing, an identity loaned to him by the one who made him. It is the title of the most loyal servant of the demon emperor, and here, in the human world, Nelo Angelo thinks he might want to be something and someone else. 

So when Nero’s gaze flickers up to his face again, a tentative question in his eyes, Nelo Angelo shakes his head, feeling some of the pressure in his mind and heart begin to evaporate. If Nero is perturbed or confused by the lack of a response, he doesn’t show it, his teeth biting gently at his bottom lip in apparent thought.

“You shouldn’t sleep here, you know.”

Nelo Angelo blinks down at the boy, noting the way that Nero’s gaze has become slightly more determined as he focuses properly on Nelo Angelo’s face, something almost scolding in his tone, and despite the fact that he is likely being admonished, Nelo Angelo cannot help but find the situation oddly endearing, somehow. 

Nero folds his small arms over his chest, his cheeks puffing out in stubborn protest as he tries to get his point across.

“You’ll get sick if you stay outside.”

Hence the perceived need for the cloak, then. 

Although the fabric of the cloak easily wraps around the boy’s frame and trails behind him on the ground, it is barely large enough to cover Nelo Angelo’s midsection, making it rather ineffective for its intended purpose. He appreciates the gesture all the same, because it’s been entirely too long since he’s been on the receiving end of any sort of concern, and the boy’s worry for him flutters warmly in the bottom of his hollow chest.

Nelo Angelo bows his head in apologetic acknowledgement, a familiar gesture with an unfamiliar intent, and while he is used to offering such supplication before his master, it feels different with Nero, warmer and kinder and freer.

In response, Nero’s pale cheeks flush with color, his fingers playing nervously with the fabric of his scarf. He seems almost taken aback by Nelo Angelo’s easy acceptance of his words, like he isn’t used to having people listen to him so willingly.

“Oh...you get it. Good.”

The wind breezes between them, gently ruffling at the boy’s fluffy locks, and Nelo Angelo suddenly finds himself looking at the top of the boy’s head, oddly compelled to reach out and touch, even when he knows he won’t be able to feel. He quashes the urge as soon as it comes, though, because he understands that he is already and all-too-quickly becoming attached to this child, gravitating naturally to this rare kindness that the boy has shown him.

It isn’t often that Nelo Angelo receives care of any sort, and his years in isolation and at his master’s side have starved him of gentle interaction altogether. But these problems belong to him and him alone, and it is hardly fair for him to impress such things onto such a young boy, especially when he knows that a relationship of this nature can hardly be allowed to last.

He’s spent too much time on the surface world as of now, anyway, and the hours he’d lain unconscious are hours he’d spent accumulating his master’s discontent. 

Nelo Angelo steadies himself against the ground before he slowly gets to his feet, the movement causing Nero’s head to jerk up in surprise. The boy hasn’t smiled the entire time they’ve been together, but at Nelo Angelo’s apparent departure, he visibly wilts, more of his face disappearing into his scarf and his eyes turning downwards. 

The sight stings at something within Nelo Angelo, and before he can think to stop himself, he bends at the waist, his hand reaching out and settling itself in the boy’s hair, his touch as gentle and as light as he can possibly make it.

_ I will return,  _ he thinks, first unconsciously, then fully, and he’s surprised at the intensity with which the thought turns into a true desire, a wish that he isn’t supposed to have.

Nero blinks up at him slowly, a cautious sort of hope crossing his face, and the corners of his lips tilt upwards in something like a shy smile, his baby blue eyes lighting up with color. It’s nighttime around them, but the boy smiles like the sun, brighter and warmer and kinder than the light that had first greeted Nelo Angelo upon his entrance into the human world, and Nelo Angelo thinks he wants to keep this close to him forever.

“...see you later?” Nero asks, his voice wobbling slightly at the end, doubt and unfounded trust warring for dominance. 

Nelo Angelo, of course, cannot answer, and when the wind picks up and Nero shuts his eyes instinctively against it, the weight in his hair and the presence before him disappears as Nelo Angelo removes his own existence from the human world.

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers watching his father disappear in the same way, as he’d stood on the doorstep of their house with his father's sword held close to his chest. His father’s form had grown farther and farther away from him, shrinking against the skyline into nothingness. _

_ He remembers how hard he'd tried to keep seeing him, how he'd searched the outskirts of their home every day after that, hoping to find a trace of him, until he'd taught himself to stop looking for his father at all. _

* * *

After that, Nelo Angelo tries to start keeping track of his time.

It’s harder, in Hell, without any of the necessary markers to help judge things, but he understands how important it is now that he has a promise to keep on the other side of the surface. 

He cannot allow himself to drift so easily anymore, because there is no sun or moon here, only the deep red and cracked purple of the void above them, and the ground is devoid of life entirely. With the way that the world stands still here, Nelo Angelo is forced to rely on his own internal clock, as feeble as it is, manually trying to mark off the seconds and minutes and days as they blend uncertainly into each other.

He stays in his own head and at his master’s side for the most part, carefully avoiding the spot where he’d first fallen into the human world, hardly daring to test if the rift between the two sides is still open or if his master has found and sealed it by now. 

If his master notices anything abnormal about his most loyal servant, about the way that Nelo Angelo takes a moment too long to respond or how the leftover warmth from the memory of Nero’s smile seeps into the cracks in his heart and warms his chest and runs down his spine in a pleasant shiver, he doesn’t show it.

If anything, the little spaces of free time that Nelo Angelo has been granted seem to grow larger, and if his count is accurate, Mundus has started to hand him days of tentative freedom without asking for any sort of penance in return. Not only is it highly unusual for his master to be quite so benevolent, it is almost certainly a trap or, at the very least, a test, something designed to ascertain the limits of Nelo Angelo’s obedience and loyalty.

Nelo Angelo knows too well what it means to fail his master’s tests, and the consequences that lie on the other side of it, but when he recalls the look on Nero’s face, the helplessly plaintive expression of someone alone in a world where everyone seems to have someone else, he finds, for once, that he cares for Nero more than he fears Mundus.

It is maybe foolish to grow so attached to a boy he has met only once, but in all the years that Nelo Angelo has been not-quite alive for, he has never felt so innately drawn to another being before. 

When he used to be Vergil, he thinks he had a person like this too. There’s a man in his memories with a red coat and a dangerously carefree smile, and when Vergil walked and stood and fought at his side, the blood sang through his veins and something not entirely human prickled underneath his skin.

It doesn’t feel quite the same with Nero--being with Nero is gentler and softer, and there’s none of the innate struggle he’d felt as Vergil, no desire to make or be made an equal in Nero’s eyes. But there is a connection all the same, and Nelo Angelo cannot help the way he wants to know more of it.

He allows a few more days to slip by before that wanting evolves into a true drive, and he takes his too-hurried steps towards the location of the crack, pausing only when he remembers the searing pain of his first attempt. As if sensing his hesitation, the space before him seems to bend invitingly towards him, the gap widening in an unassuming manner, and Nelo Angelo weighs the warmth of Nero’s smile against everything else and decides that another look is worth it.

It’s a lot less painful, this time around, perhaps because he’s already used to it. The intrusion of light against his senses still forces him to close his eyes, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, the world spins in a highly unpleasant way, but when the storm calms and he feels the breeze against his uncovered face, he blinks back into awareness to find himself in the right place.

The area looks different, in the light of the day, the colors a lot brighter and the air naturally more vibrant. Most importantly,  _ Nero  _ looks different, because the sunlight catches against his soft strands of hair from where his head is tilted upwards, his gaze determinedly fixed on a point within the branches of a tree. 

The sight itches beneath Nelo Angelo’s skin, bringing something familiar, yet far away, to the surface, and it’s as if he’s looking at another boy, slightly older and bigger than Nero, and the boy turns to him and offers him that familiar carefree grin.

But before Nelo Angelo can properly process the newly risen image, Nero presses his hands against the base of the tree and begins to haul himself upwards. Despite his small stature, the boy is much stronger than he looks, scaling the height of it with less effort than what Nelo Angelo would have expected from someone of his build. 

He disappears into the arms of the tree, taking the barest hints of Nelo Angelo’s recollection with him, and the sudden shift leaves Nelo Angelo dazed, blinking away the disorientation until a crack, along with a muffled yelp of alarm, jerks his head roughly upwards. He sees Nero’s scarf before he actually sees the rest of the boy, the black fabric threatening to tangle in the branches and pull taut around Nero’s fragile neck, and Nelo Angelo moves on instinct before he has time to remember himself.

His inhuman reflexes allow him to easily snatch Nero out of the air, landing somewhat heavily on the ground due to the weight of his armor. Nero looks startled at his sudden reappearance, struggling to catch his breath as he hugs two bright-red apples close to his chest.

The boy blinks at him hard, shaking his head slightly, like he can’t quite believe that Nelo Angelo is actually here, and as the seconds stretch by, Nelo Angelo thinks that perhaps he’s made a mistake, that he’s incorrectly estimated the degree to which Nero had tolerated his presence.

Things look different in the daylight, after all, and Nelo Angelo’s uncovered face, while passable under the cover of night, can hardly be expected to be as well-received in full view. Maybe Nero will fear him now, will display what he’d so sorely lacked during their first meeting, and the thought hurts more than it should, feels like a bone-deep ache that starts in the bottom of his stomach and radiates across his heavy limbs.

He is so tired of being feared like this, and as the thought flickers across his mind, he tightens his grip on the boy unconsciously, his armored fingers digging into his soft skin.

Nero makes another, softer squeak of pain, his head twisting to the side as he starts to frantically squirm out of Nelo Angelo’s grasp. He succeeds, mostly because Nelo Angelo isn’t trying very hard to keep him in the first place, rolling out of Nelo Angelo’s hands and onto the grass beneath them with a muffled thump, scrambling to his feet a second later. He hugs the apples closer to his chest, his posture curling in on himself in a defensive sort of gesture, and Nelo Angelo understands that his time is up, that whatever had held the boy still before is now gone.

Nelo Angelo stands, feeling unusually unsteady as he deliberately avoids looking into the child’s face, some part of him not wanting to see the inevitable, instinctive reaction. He turns away from it altogether, forcing himself to put physical and mental distance between his person and the situation at hand.

“Wait!”

He hears the muffled, rapid thumping of footsteps from behind him before a very feeble force tugs at the bottom of his cape, silently imploring him to turn back around. When Nelo Angelo continues to hesitate, the pulling grows a little more insistent, coupled with what sounds like an impatient stomp of a very small foot and a tiny little huff of air.

Despite his reservations, he can hardly deny such an enthusiastic request.

Nelo Angelo faces the boy, who stumbles slightly backward as Nelo Angelo’s cape is pulled from his hands. It takes him a moment to regain his balance, but Nero laboriously rearranges the apples in his arms until he sets one carefully on the ground and holds the other out to Nelo Angelo with a hopeful look of gratitude on his face. 

Nero waits until Nelo Angelo slowly plucks the apple from his hand and holds it in his gloved palm before he inches forward, wrapping his arms around Nelo Angelo’s legs and pressing his cheek against Nelo Angelo’s armor in what must be an absolutely uncomfortable hug for him. The boy is putting in as much effort as he can into the gesture, though, and when Nero shyly looks up, he graces Nelo Angelo with the tiniest of smiles, wiping his arm across his nose as he steps away.

“You actually came back…” 

Nero mumbles the words under his breath, softly enough that Nelo Angelo isn’t entirely sure he was meant to hear them. There’s something like genuine relief in the boy’s tone, mixed in with an undercurrent of true surprise, and he hesitates to imagine who or what happened to make Nero sound this way in the first place. 

The boy seems to notice Nelo Angelo’s quietly contemplative stare, and visibly perks up in an attempt to divert any sort of concern. He bends down, picking up the apple from the ground with one hand and stretching upwards to grasp at Nelo Angelo’s hand with the other.

Their difference in size is so vast that Nero has to stretch at an incredibly uncomfortable-looking angle to actually be able to hold his hand, so when Nelo Angelo registers his intention, he obligingly bends slightly forward to allow the boy to reach. Nero pauses at the movement, his cheeks puffing out in something like a pout as he realizes that he isn’t quite big enough to perform this sort of task without Nelo Angelo’s aid, but his momentary upset is quickly forgotten as he begins to tug Nelo Angelo along.

It’s more than a little awkward, being led by Nero, because Nero’s tiny legs can only carry him so far, and Nelo Angelo is forced to reduce himself to taking minute, slow steps at a time in order for Nero to actually be in the lead. But it’s a wholly pleasant sensation, being able to put his faith in someone and simply follow without fear of the destination, and after further pulling and prodding, they break through the line of trees and Nero brings them to a halt in front of a small stream.

Running water is a novelty to Nelo Angelo as well, because liquid in Hell generally consisted of blood and various demonic fluids, festering in stagnant little pools scattered about the dry ground. But the water before him is clean and clear and runs fast and deep, and under his armor, his fingers prickle, longing to know what it feels like.

Nero lets go of his hand, situating himself on what appears to be a soft-looking bed of grass, one made by human hands--small ones, at that--rather than by natural occurrence. After a moment, he looks up at Nelo Angelo expectantly, and leans over to smooth out the area next to him, brushing away the stray leaves and debris littering the organized pattern of the grass, patting it indicatively once he’s finished tidying it up.

The boy is offering him a place at his side, something none other than his master has done, and Nelo Angelo ducks his head as he steps forward, easing himself gently onto the grass, not wanting to ruin Nero’s careful work. There’s something light and fluttery in his chest at the idea, the familiar warmth that he’s come to associate with Nero seeping into his cold bones and warming his blood.

Nero secures his own apple in his hands, the movement belatedly reminding Nelo Angelo that he has one of his own.

Hunger is a strange concept for him.

He doesn’t need food to exist, technically. He is a demonic hybrid, fueled almost entirely by his master’s magic and will, and the energy that human nutrients provide to him means very little in the face of his inhuman metabolism.

Nero, on the other hand, clearly seems to need the sustenance, if the thinness of his frame is anything to go by. There’s a bit of a roundness to his cheeks, but all other parts of him are more bone than anything, the dips and crevices in his joints nearly drowning in his oversized clothing, the large collar of his shirt sliding easily around his too-small shoulders and collarbones.

His ill-fitting clothing apparently has its uses, though, because Nero picks up the drooping hem of his shirt in his fingers and wipes at his own apple, cleaning off before he bites into it.

Nelo Angelo can tell that the boy is attempting to make the fruit last, because he sees the same habits reflected in his own memories, the way Nero chews each bite for twice as long as he needs to, the obvious reluctance in each of his swallows.

He looks at his own apple, his desire heavy against his tongue, and no matter how much he longs to taste it for himself, Nero needs it more than he does.

He gently reaches over, depositing his apple in Nero’s lap, and the boy pauses mid-bite, removing his teeth from his apple as he tilts his head at Nelo Angelo uncomprehendingly. 

Nero looks down at the second apple like he’s unsure of what to do, but then gives a firm shake of his head, picking it up and putting it back on Nelo Angelo’s lap. 

Perhaps, Nelo Angelo thinks, he is required to make it more clear, then, that he does not need human food.

He returns the apple to Nero, giving his own shake of his head, and Nero’s confused expression shifts to something like determination as he takes a loud bite of his own apple, pushing the apple back onto Nelo Angelo’s person. They go back and forth a few times, with Nelo Angelo attempting to make his meaning clear and Nero stubbornly refusing to concede to it, until Nelo Angelo finally reaches out and actively blocks Nero’s hand with his own.

With the back of Nero’s hand pressed against his gloved palm, Nelo Angelo can see how tiny the boy’s hand truly is, and the sight stirs some sort of protective instinct within him, inciting him to wrap his fingers around the boy’s too-thin wrist and push it sternly back in Nero’s direction. 

Nero lets out an exasperated-sounding noise. He seems to relent, leaving the second apple alone and returning to his current one, but it soon becomes clear from the speed at which Nero is suddenly devouring his apple that the boy is merely trying to get it out of the way in order to be able to more freely continue the argument.

“This is for _ you,” _ Nero informs him steadily, pointing to the second apple laying innocuously in the neutral space between them.

In answer, Nelo Angelo reaches out again, a part of him still marveling at the way that Nero doesn’t flinch away from his touch. He hooks his fingers underneath the falling collar of the boy’s shirt and readjusts it properly again, clearly pointing out the lack of weight on Nero’s frame.

Nero flushes at the reminder, his face ducking into his scarf, but his gaze doesn’t look any less stubborn. He tries his hardest to fix a truly intimidating glare onto Nelo Angelo, the effect of which is sadly diminished by the puffiness of his cheeks and the boy’s complete inability to actually be angry with him.

“If you don’t take it, I’ll be mad at you forever,” he insists, which Nelo Angelo finds immensely difficult to believe, but the child has made his case anyway.

He’s never been one for giving up, but he must admit that some forces are truly unstoppable, the power of Nero’s endearing little pout being one of them. 

Nelo Angelo nods in agreement, and the attempted anger on Nero’s part dissipates instantly, replaced with a fuller, wider smile as the boy picks up the apple again and cleans it off for Nelo Angelo, placing it gently in his extended palm afterward. 

He vaguely remembers what this fruit is supposed to taste like, from his past, but as he bites into it, his teeth breaking through crisp skin, juice and natural sugar dancing across his tongue, he thinks that the memory hasn’t quite done it justice. He isn’t sure what kind of look must be on his face now, his senses too concentrated on the taste in his mouth, but when Nero looks him over, his eyes light up and his face turns even softer as he nestles up against Nelo Angelo’s side.

Nelo Angelo tries to extend the moment for as long as possible, and he can tell that too long of a time passes by as he works on this single apple, the sun starting to sink in the sky by the time he’s done. Nero sits patiently by his side the entire time, looking genuinely happy just to have shared this moment with him.

“Thank you,” Nero says suddenly, after a pause, and Nelo Angelo takes a second to guess at his meaning.

The boy’s face turns shy as he looks downwards, embarrassment heating his face as his gaze flickers back towards the line of trees, where they’d originally been.

“I mean, I would have been okay. I come here a lot, whenever they run out of food.”

Nelo Angelo has to struggle to suppress his frown then, forcing the familiar protective instinct down. He assumes that Nero refers to his inadequate caretakers in this, and cannot help but recall the brief, extremely unfulfilling moments in Vergil’s childhood where he’d entrusted himself to the humans.

He nudges the boy’s arm lightly, looking carefully down at him, hoping that some measure of his concern will be transferred to the boy. Nero meets his gaze evenly before he straightens up, shaking his head placatingly.

“I mean, it’s not bad! Just...there are a lot of other kids. And they noticed I don’t get hungry as often, so…”

So Vergil remembers it well--how it is to be made a lesser priority, a lower concern, turned away and neglected for factors beyond his control. 

Nelo Angelo stands, motioning with his hand towards the boy to follow, and Nero jumps to his feet without a moment of hesitation, complete and unconditional trust in his eyes. He honestly isn’t entirely certain how much he’s done to warrant the boy’s faith, but while Nelo Angelo has it, he will help the boy however he can.

He’s much taller and stronger than Nero, after all, and can hold many more apples in his arms.

Instinctively, he reaches down, and Nero easily puts his small hand in Nelo Angelo’s own, eager to follow wherever he’s led, and Nelo Angelo almost smiles, then, running his tongue gently against the inside of his teeth, savoring the leftover taste of his new memory. It’s a gentle sugar and warm kindness, and so purely a memory that belongs to him and Nero. 

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers that hunger always tasted bitter, somehow. He’d lived off of other people’s scraps, dependent on the mercy of others until he reached an age where he could fend for himself.  _

_ He remembers, especially, that no matter how much he ate, it never felt like enough, because there was always the same, ever-present emptiness gnawing away at the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t until much later, when he’d sought to fill the void and cast away his life in the process, that he’d forgotten what hunger felt like entirely. _

* * *

When the days start growing longer and the air drips with humidity and heat, Nero has something new to show him.

By this point, in the weeks they’ve spent together, Nero has correctly ascertained that Nelo Angelo hasn’t been to the surface world in a long time, and has yet to see many of the things that exist in his memories for himself. It’s become something of a personal mission for Nero, then, to show Nelo Angelo the things he’s missed in the time he’s been away, and the boy’s impressive enthusiasm in his task is infectious. 

Nelo Angelo looks forward to these, the little things that Nero has prepared for him, listening and nodding intently along as Nero gives his daily presentations. While Nero is still unnaturally quiet for a child his age, the boy has slowly become more talkative over the days, opening up to him now that he’s found someone who will listen to him, and Nelo Angelo finds the sound of the child’s voice soothing, a gentle rhythm that he can easily lose himself in.

They’ve set up a routine, because Nelo Angelo always appears in the same place when he goes through the rift, and the humans in charge of Nero’s orphanage apparently have no qualms about allowing him to wander outside at nearly all hours of the day. It’s a lucky arrangement for the both of them, because Nelo Angelo can arrive at whatever time he finds himself free, and Nero will be waiting patiently for him, his hopeful and expectant expression always turning into something brighter as soon as he spots Nelo Angelo’s form.

Today, oddly enough, Nero keeps his head ducked, his face almost completely hidden in his scarf, which wouldn’t be unusual, if it were not for the season. While Nelo Angelo has found that the boy tends to be rather sensitive to the cold, the summer heat has forced him out of the usual scarf and cloak he prefers to hide in.

Its sudden reappearance now is somewhat suspicious, a feeling that is sharply compounded by the way that Nero deliberately avoids his gaze, even as Nelo Angelo comes to a stop in front of him. 

Nero swallows hard, pulling his scarf up even higher before abruptly turning in the other direction, presumably meaning for Nelo Angelo to follow him. Although the abnormality of the situation twists at his stomach with worry, he allows Nero to lead the way for the moment, wanting the boy to be comfortable in the setting before he decides to pry further.

Nero seems somewhat anxious as he tugs Nelo Angelo along, unused energy radiating from his form. The boy is generally energetic about the things he chooses to put his heart into, but from where their hands are linked, Nelo Angelo can feel the boy’s fingers trembling in his grasp, his eyes darting nervously about whenever he glances back at Nelo Angelo.

“Okay,” Nero says as they stop in front of an unassuming bush with no ostensible qualities.

He makes to scurry behind the bush, but before he can actually run off, Nelo Angelo slowly lowers himself until one of his knees rests against the ground, and he’s slightly above eye level with Nero.

Although it is a familiar action, he still isn’t used to how easy it feels to submit himself before Nero, to willingly give up the advantage that his larger size provides him and bow his head before this smaller, weaker form. Even before his master, Nelo Angelo finds innate difficulty in submitting completely to him, having to force himself to remain still and compliant.

But being with Nero is so free and light, that Nelo Angelo finds that he doesn’t mind having to rein himself in around the boy.

Nelo Angelo gently reaches out and touches the boy’s shoulder, bringing Nero’s movements to a halt. Nero drops his gaze almost guiltily, and Nelo Angelo has observed him for long enough to be able to tell that Nero is biting at his lip from behind his scarf, his usual tell-tale nervous gesture.

Nelo Angelo doesn’t move immediately, allowing his questioning pause to hang in the air, to give Nero an opportunity to explain the situation for himself. But the boy makes no move to initiate any conversation, keeping his gaze set firmly on the ground, and, after he thinks he’s waited for long enough, Nelo Angelo brings his free hand upwards, slowly enough for Nero to stop him, if he wishes. 

Despite his silence, he makes no move to resist, so Nelo Angelo loops his fingers underneath the fabric of the scarf, and tugs it slightly downwards. 

It’s easy enough to tell what Nero has been hiding from him, because the moment the cloth slips free, Nelo Angelo finds himself looking at the discolored welt that mars the fragile skin of Nero’s face, a deep purple, almost black bruise covering nearly the entirety of his right cheek, barely stopping beneath his eye. 

The sight of any injury is hardly a pleasant one, but seeing it on Nero somehow registers on a different level entirely, a slow-burning anger sparking his gut, his vision hazing over before he manages to quell his own emotion. 

Nero is starting to tremble uncertainly underneath Nelo Angelo’s hand, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Nelo Angelo hopes that the instinctive, protective fury that he feels hasn’t shown on his face. He tries to soften his touch as much as he possibly can, pressing the cold metal of his gloved fingertips against the unmarked side of the boy’s face.

This is a first, for them, because in all the time they’ve known each other, Nelo Angelo rarely allows himself to touch the boy, with Nero almost always initiating the contact, his tiny hands patting gently at Nelo Angelo’s armor or clinging to Nelo Angelo’s leg. 

The boy makes no indication of retreating, leaning, instead, into Nelo Angelo’s touch as Nelo Angelo tilts his head carefully to the side, trying to get a better look at the bruise. It looks suspiciously like a handprint, with a slight gash somewhere in the middle, where a piece of metal, perhaps jewelry, scratched the boy’s face.

“I...get into a lot of fights. With the other kids, I mean,” Nero tries to clarify, trailing off when Nelo Angelo’s gaze narrows, because the size of the bruise is in no way indicative of it being the work of another child. 

“I’m not supposed to. So...they don’t like it.”

It is an unfair, but not unusual display of the way that power shapes the world.

In his current position, there is little that Nelo Angelo can do to protect the boy. While he has little doubt that he could easily best Nero’s human guardians, engaging in combat on the surface world would likely alert his master to his activities more clearly than anything else could.

Nelo Angelo is a weapon, made for battle in every sense of the word, and he is therefore bound by his unspoken rule of obedience, by the fact that he cannot use his power without his master’s bidding. It’s almost humorous, in a dark sort of way, because he used to know and live by the idea that might controlled everything, and now, when he has the power he used to dream of, the ability he’d thought he’d have to protect what mattered to him, he finds himself at his most helpless.

All he can do now, then, is lower his head apologetically, dropping his hand from the boy’s face, shifting his position so that he kneels all the way on the ground, his palms pressed flat against the grass.

Nero looks unhappy at this reaction, his fingers hurrying to tug his scarf upwards again as he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sad!” Nero insists, pausing before moving back a pace.

He makes a vague sort of gesture at Nelo Angelo, indicating that he should wait here--not that Nelo Angelo was planning to go anywhere, in the first place--before continuing with his original plan and hurrying behind the bush. His form is tiny enough to disappear almost completely behind it, only the top of his fluffy head visible until the shock of white hair suddenly vanishes, too, as Nero presumably ducks down behind it.

After a moment more of quiet shuffling, Nero emerges with his head shyly ducked down into his scarf, his hands tucked unsurely behind his back. 

“I, um…”

Nero kicks at the grass with his bare feet for a moment, stalling before he moves closer to Nelo Angelo, removing his hand from behind his back and presenting a well-kept flower to him. It’s bright yellow, with thin, overlapping petals, and a delicate stem extending from the center.

Nelo Angelo possesses memories of flowers, but he’d never exactly stopped to examine them in particular when he’d last walked the earth as Vergil, more preoccupied with chasing the goal he’d so firmly set in his mind. It looks fragile, as most things do in comparison to what he is now, and Nelo Angelo thinks he wants to feel it, his fingers prickling against his gloves for a sensation he will never have.

He extends his palm anyway, because even if he cannot derive what he truly wants from it, he will accept the boy’s gift all the same.

Nero doesn’t move to put it in his hand immediately, however, tilting his head as he blinks at Nelo Angelo in quiet contemplation. He studies him for a moment, something like understanding passing through his eyes. 

Then, in a reflection of Nelo Angelo’s earlier movements, Nero inches closer, his free hand wobbling slightly as he presses his fingers against the cracked skin of Nelo Angelo’s face.

It’s been so long since Nelo Angelo last felt any true sensation against his uncovered skin, much less an actual touch, so he thinks it might hurt or feel like too much, at first. But Nero’s hand is about as soft as Nelo Angelo had thought it’d be, his hand barely ghosting over the side of Nelo Angelo’s face, and Nelo Angelo unconsciously gravitates towards the sensation, pushing himself a little more firmly against the boy’s hand. 

Nelo Angelo doesn’t know what he himself feels like, but from what he’s seen of his own reflection, he can hardly imagine it to be pleasant, likely dry and rough and nowhere near as human as it should be. And yet it doesn’t seem to bother Nero as he stretches up a little further and takes the flower with him, his hands drifting to the left side of Nelo Angelo’s head.

It’s somewhat out of the range of his vision, but he catches the faintly sweet scent of the flower, feels the petals rustling against his face, the light pressure of Nero’s small fingers brushing through his hair, and it’s easy enough to guess at the boy’s intentions. Nero steps back, after a moment, looking somewhat pleased with himself, peeking shyly up at his handiwork from beneath his lashes.

“You can feel it this way, right?” Nero asks, still sounding somewhat uncertain of himself.

There’s a special kind of determination on Nero’s face, like if Nelo Angelo cannot, the boy will do everything in his power to make it happen. It’s such a small thing, a trivial desire, but Nero’s wholehearted interest in making Nelo Angelo happy pushes tightly against his chest, and Nelo Angelo suddenly feels cramped and compressed inside of his armor as the emotion swells within him.

He’s had a lot of good days with Nero, but in the little moments when he’s reminded of what it is like to be genuinely, truly cared for, Nelo Angelo feels happy beyond anything else. 

Emotions are rare for him, usually; before Nero, he’d mostly experienced them in muted flashes, and either suppressed them entirely or thought nothing of them at all. But with the object of his happiness right in front of him, Nelo Angelo hardly knows what to do with all the sudden  _ feeling  _ within him.

He lowers his head again, lifting one of his hands to where he thinks the flower is tucked away, and something tugs at his face, the unused muscles at the corners of his mouth straining as a smile curves at his lips. 

He’s never smiled before, as Nelo Angelo, and he so rarely did it as Vergil, but Nero gives smiles so easily that Nelo Angelo cannot help but want to reciprocate.

The boy’s surprise at seeing Nelo Angelo’s smile registers easily on his face, because Nero wears his emotions so freely on his sleeve, in a way that Nelo Angelo could only dream of doing, in his most private moments. 

“I made you happy,” Nero murmurs softly, the edges of his voice tinged with awe, like he can hardly believe it himself, and Nelo Angelo feels like he wants to speak, then, his words itching at the inside of his throat, because he needs to confirm this, and he needs to tell Nero--

_ You always make me happy, little one. _

His physical form, though, isn’t quite ready for that advancement yet, so he merely nods, trying to keep his smile soft and present. Nero seems to get it, his whole face lighting up at the confirmation in the purest smile that Nelo Angelo has seen thus far, and then the boy launches himself forward, wrapping his tiny arms around as much of Nelo Angelo’s form as he possibly can.

He can barely get his arms halfway around him, but Nelo Angelo feels like he’s being absorbed into the hug nonetheless, because Nero radiates safety and warmth and comfort and  _ home.  _ The boy’s presence leaks through the metal of Nelo Angelo’s armor and dances across his skin, highlighting every part of him in a warm touch that Nelo Angelo thinks feels like family. 

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers how he craved it, the intimacy of physical touch. He would never admit to anyone, much less himself, but in the quiet moments where he remembered the family he used to have, he curled up around the sheathed blade of his father’s sword--his now, forever and always--and pretended he was somewhere else. _

_ It became too difficult, after a point, to wish for something he would never receive, and he’d slowly learned to make himself stop wanting for it altogether. _

_ So, later, when his own brother extended his hand and offered to catch him, Vergil turned away and chose to fall. _

* * *

Eventually, they run out of time.

They spend another few months together, in the season that Nero later tells him is called fall. The leaves change color and the world looks a little less green and more like the sunset, burnt red and orange, and Nero informs him that human children like to make little piles from the fallen leaves.

He doesn’t see a point in it, honestly, but Nero seems truly enthusiastic to try, so Nelo Angelo obligingly trails behind him, carrying heaping bundles of crumbling leaves in his arms and organizing them into bundles. 

Nero shyly edges his way around it, giving Nelo Angelo’s work several longing looks, until it becomes almost painfully obvious to Nelo Angelo that Nero wishes to jump into one, but is too reserved to do so without permission. This type of activity holds almost no appeal to Nelo Angelo, but the promise of Nero’s smile certainly does, so he gives in and attempts to lead by example, settling himself in one of the larger piles.

The boy perks up and dives in alongside him, resurfacing with leaves still clinging to his white wisps of hair, and Nelo Angelo gently plucks them out of his fluffy locks, looks at the kindness of Nero’s face while the boy giggles, and wishes for the moment to last forever.

It doesn’t, because the best wishes rarely ever come true, and when Nelo Angelo steps into the human world, on the first snowfall of the year, there’s already a different set of footprints etched into the path before him. The tracks aren’t human, too large and misshapen to belong to anything but a creature like Nelo Angelo, and when he follows their trail with his eyes, he sees the way they disappear into the line of trees.

Something inside of Nelo Angelo snarls violently in protest as he moves forward, his steps quick and deliberate, and he thinks, suddenly, of being smaller and weaker and too many years away from where he is now, retracing his steps back to the ashes of his crumbling home, hoping and dreading all at once what he would find.

His fears had come to pass, then, because he’d stopped and spotted a twisted, broken hand protruding from underneath wooden beams and concrete rubble, and the fingers had been slender, the nails still smooth, painted crescents, and he’d known right away that the person underneath was--

Nelo Angelo’s heart twists sharply, jerking him out of the memory before his mind can go further, before it replaces blond, long hair with white, fluffy locks, both equally stained in red.

He breaks through the trees, and the first thing he registers is that Nero is still alive, thankfully, even if he is not alone. The boy is too trusting, the same, open kindness that he’d shown to Nelo Angelo tinging his tentative smile as he reaches forward to the demon before him.

This demon is one of the lesser ones, one of the mindless beings that crawl about Mundus’ domain, and it looks even less human than Nelo Angelo does. It does not see the innocence that Nero is, it does not feel mercy or hesitation at the sight of the child’s slight smile, and Nelo Angelo can see the way that Nero finally senses the danger as the demon comes closer, shrinking in on himself and pressing back against the rock behind him.

Nelo Angelo moves instantly, gathering Nero up into his arms and putting them a good distance away from the demon, space bending freely to his will as he tears through it. He will, of course, have to put out the creature’s life for daring to come close to the boy in the first place, but he understands that Nero is still soft and untouched by the end of life, and Nelo Angelo would prefer to keep the boy away from bloodshed for as long as possible.

Nero trembles in his arms, his eyes shut tightly against the impact, but after a pause, he cracks an eye open and peeks up at him, recognition and relief crossing his features. The boy beams at him, but Nelo Angelo cannot stop to enjoy it, when he still has a task to complete.

Slowly, he places his hand against the top of Nero’s head, and pats at it carefully, attempting to convince the boy to remain in place, before he temporarily departs to do what he was made for.

The demon is no match for him, its primitive brain still confused at the sudden disappearance of its prey when Nelo Angelo returns, and it barely has time to sense him before Nelo Angelo easily tears it apart, silencing its shrieks of pain before they can reach Nero’s innocent ears. 

As the remnants of the corpse fall against the snow-covered ground, the heat from the natural evaporation of the demonic pieces melts a circle into the grass, steam slowly rising from the area, and Nelo Angelo looks into it, watching it disappear lazily into the sky, and knows that their time is up.

Being with Nero has allowed him to forget who and what he is and where he comes from, and the freedom he’d felt in forgetting had eclipsed the danger inherent in it. 

But he is reminded, now, that he is Nelo Angelo, he is the servant of the demon emperor, and he comes from the same world that this demon at his feet does, and as long as the rift between their worlds remains open and Nelo Angelo is allowed to continue seeing this boy, so can the rest of his kind.

The simple, logical conclusion, then, is that he cannot be allowed to stay.

The thought comes easily to him, but it hurts worse than most things he knows, and when he returns to Nero’s side, where the boy has patiently been waiting for him, his tiny hands dusting off a spot on a flat bed of rocks for the both of them, Nelo Angelo feels an empty place start to hollow itself out inside of him.

Nero waves shyly at him when he sees him approach, patting the spot next to him with inviting enthusiasm, and despite everything, Nelo Angelo cannot bring himself to immediately refuse, allowing them one last moment together.

“Um--do you know what was?” Nero asks, inevitably curious, and Nelo Angelo pauses, his thoughts bitter in his mouth.

He shakes his head automatically, trying to will the subject away, and Nero seems to understand, because he falls silent, pulling his cloak more tightly around him. Even in the winter, Nero doesn’t possess much more than a few protective layers of warmth, and Nelo Angelo can feel the boy trembling beside him from the cold.

Nelo Angelo should send this child back, for the good of them both, but when he feels a slight pressure against his side and looks down to see Nero leaning against him, the tightness in his throat worsens, and his jaw clenches so hard that his headaches.

The weather has no effect on Nelo Angelo himself, the magic engraved into the armor he wears protecting him from the elements, but something like a bone-deep chill passes through his body anyway, a light tremor radiating from the hollow place inside his chest. He doesn’t want to be alone, now that he knows what company is like, and the absence of Nero’s smile in the future that he is already preparing for himself sends an uncontrollable shudder down his spine.

The motion jars the boy against him, and Nero leans back to inspect him, tilting his head in curious concern.

“Are you cold?”

Nero’s suggestion that Nelo Angelo is able to feel at all comes from a place of well-intentioned innocence, from the assumption that Nelo Angelo is a being with thoughts and feelings and his own free will, just like anyone else, and Nelo Angelo  _ hurts, _ because he thinks he’ll miss this the most.

Before he can shake his head and deny the claim, Nero is already standing up, loosening the scarf around his neck. The fabric is far too large for the boy, wrapping three times around him and still able to touch the ground beneath them, and Nero struggles to unwind a portion of it from himself, his small hands trembling with the motion.

Then, in a truly dedicated effort, Nero stretches upwards as best as he can, tossing a loop of the scarf around Nelo Angelo’s neck, bringing the two of them close together. Nelo Angelo feels Nero’s tiny hands against the collar of his armor as Nero works to adjust the fabric to accommodate both of their vastly differing frames.

Nelo Angelo allows himself to be tugged slightly downwards, until he’s somewhat bent over Nero, their heads close together and their bodies linked by the thin scarf. While the boy is positively drowning in the fabric, Nelo Angelo manages to fill it out a little too well, the loose threads in the material itching against the thin strip of exposed skin at his neck.

“Is it better now?” 

The look that Nero gives him is so plainly hopeful and pure that the lump in Nelo Angelo’s throat suddenly starts to melt, the fluttering sensation in his chest momentarily overriding the twisting pain in his stomach. He moves his hand upwards, pressing it gently against the back of Nero’s head, and, driven by a memory he’d thought he’d forgotten, he leans down and barely brushes his lips over the boy’s forehead, his fingers gently wiping the snow off of Nero’s fluffy locks.

Nero stiffens in surprise at the movement, his eyes widening as he looks at Nelo Angelo uncertainly, and Nelo Angelo feels his words struggling to come out. He’s never spoken before, he still doesn’t know if he can, but Nero’s head against his gloved palm is a reassuring weight against his doubts, and he tastes apples and smells yellow flowers and his jaw unlocks as his words come to the surface.

There is too much he needs to say to this boy. He wants to tell Nero about what he’s done for him and why he matters and that he is the kindness that neither Nelo Angelo nor Vergil have ever had, and that if there is anything in Nelo Angelo’s existence that he is truly certain about, it is that he loves this child like he is his own, but at this moment, he thinks he can only manage--

“...thank...you.”

He almost doesn’t recognize the sound as his own, because he’s never heard it quite like this.

His voice is more distorted than it used to be, in his other life, and his years of silence have obviously taken their toll, his words slurring together and his voice barely audible over the sound of falling snow. But Nero is close enough to hear him, a certain amount of wonder entering his gaze before something sad passes over his expression.

Nero nestles himself up against Nelo Angelo, his small hands pressing themselves against the armor, and there’s a kind of desperation to the boy’s movements, coloring the intensity with which he embraces him. 

Nelo Angelo hasn’t communicated anything real to him, but the boy has always been perceptive, and something in the quiet of this final hug makes Nelo Angelo think that Nero maybe knows he won’t see him again, either.

“I’ll wait for you,” Nero whispers anyway, the plaintive sound pricking against Nelo Angelo’s ears.

The snow falls gently around them, padding softly against the ground as more and more white drifts into order. It fills up the footsteps they’ve left, covering the surface and erasing their tracks, conveniently and quietly, as if they had never been there at all.

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers that their mother used to read to them, before they went to bed. She’d had a book of stories, a collection much like his own, and every night he’d listened to her voice and allowed it to carry him off to sleep. _

_ In one story, she’d told them about a mermaid who’d fallen in love with a human, who had given up her voice and traded her soul for a chance to be with him. He’d found it foolish, at the time, that she’d be willing to give up any part of her agency in exchange for anything. _

_ But, later, when the Yamato fell from his hand and his vision narrowed to a single spot of light, a dim reflection of the broken blade, and inky tendrils of black wrapped around his throat and started to consume who he was, the last thought that he had had as himself is that he hadn’t given up enough. _

* * *

He seals the portal as soon as he leaves the human world.

It’s easier than he thought it would be, in the physical sense at least. He’s never quite turned his power towards a use like this before, but when he presses his hand against the invisible rift, he can feel the spatial energy flickering underneath his fingers, easily submitting to his will.

The divide is already naturally smaller than how Nelo Angelo remembers it, and he has little doubt that if he were to leave it alone, it would eventually close completely on its own. Its existence is a coincidental anomaly, bound to return to the normal state of things.

He hesitates for a moment, the skin at his neck and face tickling with the phantom memory of Nero’s kind touch. 

Nero had promised to wait for him, and while Nelo Angelo had been unable to dissuade him from doing so, he very much doubts that he will get the chance to see the boy again, at least not in this way. It stings at him, because he’s lost enough from when he was Vergil, but this is the first thing that Nelo Angelo’s had and lost for himself, and it’s worse than he remembers it to be. 

But he knows, absolutely, with everything in his being, that these fleeting snatches of happiness and freedom that he’s stolen for himself are nowhere near the price of Nero’s safety.

He is a part of the demon world as much as this space is, and when he pushes a fraction of his power into it, the natural progression of the rift accelerates, the crack narrowing and disappearing before his eyes, until he can no longer feel the distortion in space at all.

He turns away from it with a certain slowness, then, because he feels vaguely like he’ll fly apart if he goes too fast, if he thinks too hard about what he’s just done. It’s easier to allow himself to drift, as he’s so used to doing, to sink himself into the slowly creeping numbness that spreads across his body.

With the portal gone and any future and freedom he’d had with Nero gone with it, Nelo Angelo does his best to return to his usual routine, to his place at his master’s side. He bows his head and kneels before him, when it is required, and keeps his jaw clenched and his mouth shut and pretends like his words aren’t clawing against the column of his throat. 

He’s good at this, at the pretending, and sometimes he can tell himself that he isn’t counting out the days on the surface world in the back of his mind, trying to keep track of Nero’s time even when Nelo Angelo has none of his own. He tells himself that he doesn’t care to know what has become of the boy and what will become of him, to know if he stumbled home alone on that cold night and curled up on the orphanage floor, or if he went back every day after that and waited for him in that clearing.

He absolutely, definitely does not care, and the weight of it pokes roughly at his aching chest and tugs at his limbs and makes him sluggishly unresponsive, and inevitably, his master takes notice of it.

“What has become of my creation?” his master muses, and Nelo Angelo feels the faint presence of Mundus’ touch inside of his own head, and a flash of uncharacteristic panic strikes through him as Mundus strays a little too near to the spot where he keeps his best and fondest memories -- the only memories that can truly be called his.

One of them, knocked free from its place by Mundus’ encouragement, rises to the surface, and he sees himself and Nero as they used to be, the two of them hiding behind the cover of a tree. The trunk does nothing to conceal his bulky frame, but Nero seems to insist on the secrecy, and Nelo Angelo has no wish to lead the boy’s plans astray, and then Nero lights up, tugging enthusiastically at his hand before pointing out the form of a baby rabbit to him.

Nero thinks it’s cute and fluffy, and tells him so, and Nelo Angelo nods along, but he isn’t quite looking at the animal when he does, but rather, the brightness of Nero’s smile.

_ That’s mine,  _ he immediately thinks, before he can stop himself, his mind laying claim to this boy and the memories of him.

His mental walls automatically close in around the part of him that belongs to Nero, the gesture most definitely drawing his master’s attention. Concealing any part of himself from the one who made him is a sign of rebellion, at its most basic level, something that is absolutely not tolerated between them.

Mundus is stronger than he is, as he is now, but Nelo Angelo cannot allow Mundus to touch those memories of Nero, even if it costs him everything he has left to give. He shuts his eyes, bracing himself for a struggle, but to his surprise, his master actually retreats, and when Nelo Angelo reluctantly glances up at him from behind his helmet, he can read nothing in Mundus’ stone gaze.

“Have you forgotten already?” 

Shadows creep forward before Nelo Angelo can think to fight, curling easily around his limbs and tearing what little control he has over his own form away from him. He hasn’t forgotten this at all, the memory of his creation--

_ When he was Vergil, he remembers seeing nothing and reaching for nothing, feeling the arctic touch of his mother’s murderer echoing in his ears, he remembers that the heart is a tumor of weakness and-- _

"You need neither ego, nor memories.”

_ so let me rid you of it. _

Nelo Angelo blinks once, twice, and then feels like he’s gone. There’s an empty part in him where his chest should be, a creeping cold dripping into his bones, and then he is unwillingly sharing his mind with his master, his defenses easily torn open and his thoughts and his will and his being laid open for Mundus to see.

He’s still looking at this singular memory, but it’s rapidly crumbling at the edges.

The color seeps out of it first, the baby blue of Nero’s eyes and pink of his cheeks fading into monochrome. Even his already white hair seems paler and washed-out, the image losing its form and the memory losing its life. The sound of Nero’s giggle dies in his throat and dissipates into nothing, and the light pressure at Nelo Angelo’s hand is gone, his fingers curling around empty air, and then the whole world bends and twists and the trees disappear, the sky disappears, all of it leaking into a useless dream.

The rest of his mind follows, leaving him like water through his fingers--the comparison comes to him, briefly, then slips away too, because there is no running water in Hell, only in the world that he’s leaving behind. The memories fall out of order, then fall into nothing at all, and Nelo Angelo thinks that he feels his physical body jerk against his bonds, his hands clenching like if he tries hard enough he can hold onto at least one last thing.

Somehow, miraculously, his mind actually seems to obey his desperate wish. 

A tiny fragment stalls in his thoughts, like a piece of cloth snagged on a tree branch, suspended in air, and Nelo Angelo is looking at the familiar face of a distant stranger, of a child with kind eyes who smiles like the sun. 

It is blinding, in every sense of the word, first because it is warm and bright and too much of what Nelo Angelo thinks he must have never seen or felt or had, and then because, like all the rest, it goes white, then black, then dark.

It’s a nice image, though, the illusion of this child, the visage of his gentle face rather pleasant. There’s a foreign warmth in the boy’s eyes, a level of unprecedented trust in them. Nelo Angelo thinks that he’s never been looked at like that before, and in another life, maybe, he would have liked to have known this boy.

But he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance to.

* * *

_ When he was Nelo Angelo, Vergil remembers having a strange, constant dream. _

_ He spent a lot of his life sleepwalking, at that point, because with his mind trapped in a body that no longer belonged to him, there wasn’t much else to do. For the most part, his mind kept itself blank, quiet thoughts in a quiet space. But sometimes, when he passed by a pool of stagnant blood or the armored toe of his boot caught in one of the webbed cracks on the ground or he looked up into the endless void above him, like he was expecting to see something in the horizon, he slipped into a dream. _

_ It was a nice one, but each time he returned to reality, the details faded away, leaving him empty and confused for the most part. _

_ He didn’t understand it, when the dream kept coming back, filling in the empty spaces of his consciousness in the moments when he couldn’t bring himself to. _

_ Perhaps, he’d thought, someone was waiting for him to wake up. _

“So this has been nice,” Dante says to his right, scratching idly at his jaw.

The stubble on Dante’s chin has fully evolved into a beard, and his twin brother has honestly become slightly unsightly to look at, due to his overly-abundant facial hair. Vergil is rather certain that Dante possibly prefers the look, a suspicion that is heavily colored by Dante’s repeated refusals of using his own sword to shave.

The sight, while alarming, is effective in catching Vergil’s attention, and he shakes his head slightly, like he’s clearing water from his ears, his hand straying to his waist and his fingers unconsciously seeking out the Yamato’s hilt for some measure of grounding reassurance. 

“Wandering around Hell, busting our asses, me winning all of our spars--fun times, really. But I gotta level with you, Verge. I’m dying for a pizza. And a shower. And you talk in your sleep, so maybe a pair of earplugs.”

Dante lists out several commodities of the human world, stretching his arms casually above his head and lacing his hands behind his head. His brother’s words are light, but the look on his face is carefully perceptive, watching Vergil for his reaction.

His twin brother maybe understands Vergil’s reluctance to return to the human world, a place he isn’t sure how to fit into anymore, after all his years away, suspended in time but losing his life all the same. If Vergil asked, he knows that Dante would stay here in Hell with him, for as long as it took for Vergil to become acclimated with the idea.

But it’s also obvious to Vergil that while Dante feels right at home by his side, a part of his brother misses the life he’s built on the surface. He’s eager to show that life of his to Vergil, and he’s eager to  _ live  _ it with Vergil, to have the both of them build up from the foundations they’d left off on over three decades ago.

“Alright,” he concedes, a bit more easily than he normally would, but the days he’s spent at his brother’s side, marveling in the sensation of being alive and at home, have slightly softened his defenses. 

“Let us see how dismally you must have fared on your own, then.”

Dante barks out a laugh, leaning closer to him and pressing a heavy hand to Vergil’s upper back. His touch lingers for a moment too long against Vergil’s form, an almost undetectable tremble in his brother’s fingers when he pulls away, like Dante still can’t quite believe Vergil is really here.

“Hey, I did pretty well for myself, I think. I mean, maybe Lady and Trish have burned the place down by now, but I’m trusting the kid would’ve put a stop to that before it ever escalated to that point.”

Vergil tenses at the reference towards Nero, because there is a rather tangled amount of emotion associated with the boy. Discovering the existence of his son had been somewhat of a revelation, and the knowledge that he’d torn his own son’s arm off in an unintentional manner doesn’t exactly sit well with him, but aside from that, there’s something else, too.

Nero’s name, image, and identity all feel frustratingly close, like they’ve sunken underneath a veil that Vergil can see through but cannot reach through, and he ponders on this empty space in his mind as he falls into step with Dante, their strides evenly matched.

“Anyway, I’m glad you agree. I guess we just gotta find a good spot to open something up with the Yamato. Although, I’m thinking you know a bit more about that than I do.”

Vergil’s gaze drifts to the Yamato at his side at Dante’s words, a slight frown passing over his face. 

He hadn’t been able to do this at nineteen, this business of opening and sealing rifts in the world, but when he’d crawled out of Hell, dragging his crumbling form towards where he’d sensed the Yamato’s energy, he’d somehow had the knowledge of it within him, an inherent experience that he’s never had.

The same instinct guides his motions as he leads Dante to a certain point, a place where the fabric in space feels a little thinner than the rest. He understands, innately, that it will take the least energy to pass through here, and even less to close it.

The Yamato’s blade makes two cuts in the air, and the world unfurls before them, a twisting void lurking in the torn shreds of the divide. He keeps one hand curled around her hilt, and his free hand automatically drifts upwards, his fingers wanting to press themselves against the distortion in space.

He feels the energy tugging at the tips of his fingers, and he looks back at Dante, who is studying him with an unusually serious expression, his hands tucked into his pockets. When he notices Vergil’s gaze on him, though, he straightens up, the usual easy grin sliding over his face.

“Lead the way,” he invites Vergil, who takes in a slight breath, putting a foot forward.

Something within him twists almost anxiously--he’s been on the surface world before, when he’d first returned and then later, when he’d truly reformed, but the intention behind things this time is completely different. It’s a more permanent sense of leaving, a transition into a new life altogether, and a small part of Vergil is hesitant to see what lies on the other side.

But Dante’s presence is solid and warm at his back, and the Yamato is heavy in his hands, and if those two things aren’t enough to ground him wherever he goes, then nothing will be.

Vergil steps through the portal, feeling the air change around him. The slightly stifling atmosphere of Hell shifts to something cool and clear, and when Vergil rubs at his eyes with his free hand and blinks back into focus, he’s standing in a grassy clearing in the cool night.

Dante appears at his side a second later, whistling out lowly as he surveys their surroundings, but Vergil’s attention is fixed on the sky above them, at the moon hanging in the backdrop of the horizon.

“Interesting that it dropped us off here,” Dante mutters, more to himself than anything, a faint hint of recognition in his tone.

Vergil tilts his head towards his brother, raising an eyebrow, because he’s come to know when Dante’s words hold more weight than they should. 

“What do you mean?”

His twin shrugs in response, his fingers rubbing against the back of his neck in an idly nervous gesture. 

“Nothing. Just...it’s Fortuna, I mean. So we got lucky--we can go crash at Nero’s place.”

Vergil thinks there might be more to it than just that, but he nods in agreement, a slow wave of exhaustion starting to sweep over him as the events of the past month catch up to him. He nods at Dante in indication for him to take the lead, since Dante seems to already be familiar with where Vergil’s son lives.

They fall into an easy silence, their boots crunching against the grass, and Vergil takes a little too long to look at everything, silently absorbing his surroundings. It looks the same, greens and browns blending into each other, and when a flash of color emerges at the corner of his eye, he naturally turns his head towards it, his gaze finding a soft patch of flowers peeking out from behind a sprawling bush.

His body stops before his mind does, his breath catching in his throat and his heart constricting in his chest, and before his thoughts can catch up with his actions, he walks off the path and towards the flowers.

Dante notices the sudden shift, turning to him with some amount of bemusement.

“You coming?” Dante calls, his voice sounding as if it echoes from a faraway place.

Vergil feels an invisible pressure, what could possibly be a tug on the back of his coat, or maybe a cape, and when he looks back the field seems too empty, as if he were expecting to see something.

The wind brushes against his uncovered face, summer heat seeping into his skin, and then everything comes back to Vergil slowly, as it always does, first in bits and pieces, and then all at once.

Vergil kneels down, his fingers wrapping around the delicate stem, yellow petals brushing against his bare palm. 

“Wait.”

* * *

Nero clearly isn’t expecting them when he opens the door, still rubbing at his closed eyes and stifling his yawn.

“What the--” he begins in irritation, likely confused as to who could be pounding at his door at such a late hour, before he cracks open his eyes and properly takes in the knowledge of exactly who is standing in front of him.

There’s a long moment of silence, in which the boy gazes at them in obvious astonishment, blinking rapidly as his eyes flit nervously around, as if he thinks he might be seeing things. Vergil shifts uncomfortably in the quiet and Dante rubs at his jaw, before offering the boy a grin.

“Hey, kid. Long time no see?”

The boy’s head snaps back towards Dante, a multitude of emotions passing across his face before he pushes forward and grabs at Dante in a desperate hug, wrapping his arms around Dante’s torso with impressive strength.

Dante chuckles lightly, rubbing small circles into Nero’s back, trying to keep his reaction casual, but it’s impossible to miss the certain note of softness in Dante’s eyes when he looks down at his nephew. 

It’s a touching reunion, which Vergil is rather awkwardly present for, and he begins to wonder if he should turn away or perhaps cut open another portal and abscond from the situation altogether when Nero pulls back from Dante and looks hard at him.

His brother seems to notice the sudden tension in the air, and drops his hand into Nero’s hair, ruffling at his fluffy locks before stepping past him.

“Maybe you two want to do some catching up. I’m gonna go get a snack.”

Nero makes absolutely no move to stop his uncle from trespassing into his home and eating his food, which Dante takes as a sign of approval, breezing into the house and leaving the two of them behind.

The boy is the first to break eye contact, despite being the one to initiate it, dropping his gaze as he shuffles nervously before him. His left hand twitches upwards, his fingers unconsciously curling at his collarbone, like he’s reaching for something at his neck. 

It’s a familiar sight, one that makes Vergil smile faintly, the corners of his lips barely curling upwards.

“I, um…” Nero begins, his bare foot scuffing idly at the doormat, and Vergil steps forward, bringing his hand out from behind his back and extending the yellow flower towards his son.

Nero’s sharp inhale cuts itself off as the boy’s gaze falls upon it, a very slow, incredulous sort of realization entering his eyes. He seems like he doesn’t entirely dare to believe it, at first, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip as his hand comes up and takes the flower from Vergil, his fingertips brushing against the uncovered parts of Vergil’s skin.

“I made you wait,” Vergil says, an apology and an admission and a tentative hope, all rolled into one.

Nero ducks his head downwards, cradling the flower carefully to his chest. A kind smile sparks at the edges of his mouth, lighting up his features and softening his face. He gives Vergil a very familiar look--it’s the way that Nelo Angelo had wanted to be seen, and it’s the way that Nero sees them--and it feels like safety and warmth and comfort and  _ home. _

The gap between them narrows as the boy steps closer, leaning his forehead into Vergil’s chest, something slightly damp leaking into the fabric of Vergil’s coat. 

A lightness erupts in the bottom of Vergil’s stomach, curling around his too-fast heart and putting a deep warmth into his bones. He lifts up his hand, resting it against the back of Nero’s head in a cautious gesture, revelling in the feeling of Nero’s soft locks curling in between his fingers. 

“You made me happy,” Nero corrects him, his voice muffled by emotion and cloth, and Vergil has never heard a more pleasant sound, his free arm coming to wrap around his son in a proper hug.

There’s much more for them to say, now that their worlds have evolved and their circumstances align, but when Nero finally pulls back, swiping hastily at his eyes and turning slightly away, Vergil is content with the silence that falls between them.

Nero steps back towards the door, pushing it slightly wider, and the faint light from inside falls gently against Vergil’s face. 

“You’ll get sick if you stay outside.”

There’s an amused tint to Nero’s words, the boy’s watery smile widening as he motions towards the inside of his home with a flick of his head, and it feels like a private joke passed between the two of them, a well-kept secret that is so plainly theirs. 

Vergil moves forwards, hearing the door shut behind him, and, through the windows, he can see the edges of the night starting to lighten into dawn, time slipping past him in the way it so quickly does for humans. The vague scent of flowers hangs in the house, and it tastes like apples, somehow, in the warmth of his throat.

Vergil smiles, runs the tips of his fingers across his palm in a reminder of his own touch, and goes to find what will become his world.

**Author's Note:**

> TWITTER (where u will find mainly danero mixed in w/ obsessive dadgil and baby newo poasting)  
https://twitter.com/moolktea


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